


and the sun still burns

by friedgalaxies



Series: otsuchi soul [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Secret Crush, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25457521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friedgalaxies/pseuds/friedgalaxies
Summary: “Are you sure the sun is going to keep burning, even when you can’t see it?”And he knew her to be right.
Relationships: Akimichi Chouji & Nara Shikamaru & Yamanaka Ino, Akimichi Chouji & Yamanaka Ino, Akimichi Chouji/Nara Shikamaru
Series: otsuchi soul [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843909
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	and the sun still burns

Chouji Akimichi has been told many times that his heart is too entirely soft for his own good. 

He’s never surprised when this topic comes up in conversation, because it's only inevitable that the subject of his cowardice will be broached, no matter how well the other participants in the conversation know him. Especially if they know him well, it seems, when he thinks about it. 

He’s Chouji, who is big and soft and wide-boned and too kind for his own good, too kind to succeed as a ruthless Konoha shinobi. Chouji, who wears his heart on his sleeve and is always the first to break the dam of tears when his teammates and peers stand, stony-faced and dry-eyed. Chouji, who is regrettably open and lets himself be read like an open book, even as the rest of his classmates, the ones who will go on to be successful, merciless shinobi, kept their emotions guarded and locked tightly away like the world’s worst-kept secret. 

He isn’t even emotional in a useful way, the way Naruto’s anger and incandescent hope fuel him to be better, be stronger, never give up. The way Sasuke’s cool indifference manifests as an unending, icy rage just beneath the surface of his skin, choked steam vents fit to burn the hands of those who come too close to one of the too-few openings clogged with regret and the bitter salt of repressed tears. Ino, who is prideful and conniving, who plays the part of the ditzy bottle blond and winds people around her little finger, like the lock picking wire Chouji knows she keeps twined around the base of her right earring like a promise, like a weapon. 

Shikamaru, who is all laziness and pride on the outside but if you brush past the surface, wipe the loose leaf litter off the abandoned graves standing sentry at his ribcage where he keeps his heart prisoner, the deep, you will find the unending love for his friends that drives him to create, to think, to spin brilliant tactics off the cuff with seconds to spare. You will find Shikamaru Nara’s love for his friends, for his family, the worst kept secret in Konoha. 

So it isn’t surprising that people single him out of their trio as the weakest one, if they aren’t caught up in the fact that Ino is a girl and they let her attend the academy in the first place, much less graduate. It isn’t surprising that they see the Nara genius and Yamanaka cunning and reduce him to the Akimichi appetite, the Akimichi pork fat skimmed off the top, the Akimichi stupidity. They do not see his fire and passion beneath the surface, because he keeps those carefully tucked away, slotted between his breastbone and his lungs. 

He tried, as a child, to keep his thoughts and feelings dutifully shuffled away, pulled off the stage with the wooden curve of a shepherd’s hook, off his face and off the heart that pumped sluggish red blood on his sleeve. He wasn’t very good at it. He was even worse at it than Naruto, which really felt like an accomplishment of the worst kind on his own end. 

It’s no surprise when his father takes him aside as a genin and tells him that he’s going to burst if he keeps his emotions locked up inside like that, but Chouji thinks it’s worth bursting open at the seams if eyes would stop skipping over him, only ever acknowledging him because he’s the biggest object in the room and demands attention by default. 

Akimichi can expand their bodies to near infinite sizes, but Chouji doesn’t ever think he’ll be able to make himself big enough to fit his too-soft, too-large, too-bleeding heart. 

His father eventually takes him aside and tells him that he thinks Chouji too soft to be a shinobi, but he tries not to think about that particular conversation very much. 

It’s almost saddening, the way Asuma looks at him like he’s worth spending time on, for once. Who looks at the ever-emptying pile of barbecue on Chouji’s plate and simply orders him more, laughing off Chouji’s futile attempts to open his wallet and saying he’ll just put it on his own tab. 

There are many misconceptions about the Akimichis, too many for Chouji to name and still keep his sanity intact. The misconception that grates on Chouji the most is that his clan are fat because they eat, because of course they only ever see the size of their bulk and assume fat, because of course they don’t bother to think about the hard-won muscle beneath, because they don’t feel the ever-constant hungriness in the pit of every Akimichi stomach like an empty blackness. No one sees that the Akimichi are born big and fight big and die big. No one sees the fact that they’ve traded the ability to ever feel full for their kekkai genkai, many many generations before Chouji was even a twinkle in the cosmic blanket of the universe. No one can see that the Akimichi are large because a large body is a warrior’s body, the same way a reedy, waifish body is a tactician’s body and a svelte, gymnastic body is a psychologist’s body. 

There’s a tale, passed down amongst the Akimichi and told to lull their children to sleep at night, that the Akimichi are built like barrels to make space for the eternal warrior’s flame situated at the bottom of their lungs. That the warrior’s flame cannot burn without sufficient room for the flames, that the air out of their lungs and the rage nestled deep in their hearts keeps it burning past the very last ember. That if the Nara are the lockpick and the Yamanaka are the knife then the Akimichi are the otsuchi, a warrior’s ancient weapon, big and heavy and trustworthy, a first hit always a final blow. 

(Something breaks in his own eternal fire when his father’s body hits the ground and starts turning cold, when that warrior’s flame is snuffed out and burning embers are all that’s left. Something breaks and feels an awful lot like his ribs turning into tinder and his heart bleeding, bleeding out.) 

So it’s no surprise when Ino levels him with that look that says she doesn’t need a Yamanaka’s skill, a Yamanaka’s kekkai genkai, to see what’s going on in his head and his infernal, twice-damned, ever bleeding heart. So it’s no surprise when Ino says to him, 

“You’re in love.” 

And it should be no surprise the way his heart stutters and staggers and the warrior’s flame shudders as if struck. He clenched the little box of dango (hungry, hungry, always hungry) in his hand, one left for Shikamaru in his favorite flavor, so hard the cardboard crumpled. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Chouji….” Ino levelled him with a Look, a look that said they could wait here all day till the grass under their feet turned gray and the sky turned green. His warrior’s flame shuddered and Ino cupped her hands around it and blew. 

“You love him, don’t you?” 

And damn him if his ever-bleeding thrice-damned too-big heart didn’t stop for the barest of seconds, if he doesn’t feel his lungs bottom out and the blood drain from his face. An errant ginger curl floats past them on the breeze like a lick of flame. 

“Yeah.” 

“How long?” 

“Forever.” 

Ino rolled her eyes and looked to the blue, blue sky, rephrases. “How long have you known?” 

He stuttered. Considered. “Ever since the failed Sasuke rescue mission.” 

(The taste of failure burns like sea salt on the back of his tongue, all too familiar, all too unwelcome.) 

“How did you know?” Because even if Ino is a Yamanaka and it wouldn’t have taken her being one of Chouji’s two best friends in the entire unending world to know exactly what he’s thinking at any time she’s going to drag it out of him, as kicking and screaming as he wants to be right now. But he is an Akimichi, so he quells the panicked rage building hard and fast in his heart and adds it to the fire, the eternal fire, which eats it as greedily and hungrily as the never-ending pit in his stomach. 

“I was willing to sacrifice myself for him.” he said, because it was true. Because they had been so young and they didn’t know if they were going to be coming back from this mission or not and he could be useful for once and puts his secret, undying anger to use for once and he was willing to die right then and there, not for his village but for Shikamaru. His Shikamaru. His shadow. 

Many people thought that Chouji was Shikamaru’s shadow, but it was the other way around. Few knew. 

Ino knew. 

“Not for the village.” she asked, despite knowing the answer already. 

“Not for the village.” he confirmed. 

Ino hummed, kicking her feet where her long legs were splayed out in the grass, sandals shed somewhere in the greenery while they waited for Shikamaru to come catch up. Chouji was reminded of how he didn’t get much one-on-one time with Ino, despite all that he loved her like a sister, despite all that the flame in her soul burned as bright as his own. Between her shifts at the flower shop and constant training, training with her father, training more than anyone would have ever expected from a ditzy bottle blonde (who already had them wrapped around her finger like a promise) would have expected, he didn’t get to see her often, alone. Just the two of them. 

“He loves you.” Chouji’s head whipped around, but Ino was still watching clouds, a pleased smile on her face. Catlike, for all that her family were boars. Smooth and silent and graceful and proud. 

Chouji wet his lips. “How do you know?” 

“He doesn’t.” she said instead, like that was any kind of answer, but it was the one Chouji had come to expect. 

Chouji was not important. Chouji was not worthy of love. Chouji was not worthy of the title of shinobi. Of course he would never be worthy of the grace, the gift, of being returned his Nara’s love, because Chouji was never worth it in the first place. 

“I see.” And it felt like a curse on his lips. 

Ino rolled her head around to face him, ponytail swishing gently. It fell against the grass in blonde-white-silver strands like spider silk. Chouji helpfully tucked a stray strand that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear for her. She caught his hand and squeezed, and he forced a smile back. 

“It’s not for the reason you think.” she said, because she was Ino and she knew what he was thinking before he even thought it. 

“Oh?” the word came out like a blessing, like a prayer, barely more than a noise. She knit their fingers together against the grass and continued watching clouds, talking softly. Her voice had always been nice. Everything about Ino was beautiful, not limited to and including her voice. 

Even if he hadn’t had his own eyes to see it with, he could see how girls and boys (hapless, hopeless boys) alike followed her with hearts in their eyes and confessions on their lips, and he was like a brother to her so of course he would protect her with all his Akimichi might. He would protect the two of them to his dying breath, would give his life a hundred times over so that they might be spared, even if it was just from a broken heart. 

“He doesn’t know he loves you in the first place.” she said instead, because she was Ino and she was nothing if not cryptic when she wanted to be. She was a codebreaker, when it came down to it, and she delighted in leaving codes, riddles, in her words for her best friends to break. Only for the two of them to break, because they knew her best, knew her as well as her own father did if not better, but no one else had come quite as close. Not many people were allowed the privilege of solving an Ino Yamanaka original. 

“How do you know?” he asked, because it was easier and faster than asking what she meant. She squeezed his hand and hummed. 

“You’re his sun.” 

And Chouji had never been to the ocean before, had never been to the perimeter of Wave Country, but it felt like an ice cold wave breaking over his head and soaking him down to the bone in sea salt. Because of course, this entire time everyone had thought that Shikamaru was the sun, and Chouji was simply his shadow, including Chouji himself. 

Because of course, Chouji went with Shikamaru like the moon went with the sun, like the earth went with the sky. Because of course, Chouji was always in Shikamaru’s footsteps, casting a light over him and instead of lighting the path before them like he thought Shikamaru was supposed to do he was casting Shikamaru’s shadow before the boy himself instead. Because of course, a Nara was nothing without their Akimichi and Chouji cast the shadow before Shikamaru to use as a weapon. 

Because of course, Chouji was the distraction for Shikamaru’s snare. Because of course, Shikamaru was the snare for Chouji’s first and final blow. Because of course, they went together like the sun and shadow. 

Because of course, an Akimichi and his eternal flame were the light of a sun for a Nara’s shadow, because there could not be shadows without light. There could be shadows even in the deepest of forests, among the leaf litter and roots, among the meager light that poked through a thick canopy. The shadows at the floor would be darker, deeper, on the edge of constantly becoming snuffed out in a deep darkness where all shadow was no shadow and no shadow was all shadow. Because the sun could glare brightly without a shadow, but shadow could not be cast without light. 

“Are you sure?” Chouji asked, because it was almost too much to hope. Ino reached out and tucked a loose ginger curl behind his own ear like he had done for her not minutes before, poking into the softness of his cheek right where he knew the direct center of his red clan marking swirls to be. 

(Ino and Shikamaru had been there when he got his clan markings at five, on his birthday, a few months before officially entering the ninja academy. Ino had held his right hand and Shikamaru had held his left as Chouji’s grandmother carefully, dutifully hammered the awl into his cheeks and left behind swirls of red as bright as blood. He hadn’t cried, because an Akimichi did not cry upon receiving their clan tattoos, each one as individual as a fingerprint, but his cheeks had ached anyway and his best friends in the entire world had smiled at him and told him how brave he was and how proud they were and how they were officially going to become the world’s greatest shinobi, together. Together.) 

“Are you sure the sun is going to keep burning, even when you can’t see it?” 

And he knew her to be right. 

Because if Chouji was the sun and Shikamaru was the moon then Ino was the gravitational pull, keeping the three of them in orbit. Because even though she was the temperamental Yamanaka spy to their frazzled Nara genius and long-suffering Akimichi warrior, she kept them together like a glue that had long since dried on their hands. 

Because even if Shikamaru never returned his affections, never even discovered that he loved Chouji as more than a friend and not quite a brother, then Chouji would be okay. 

Shikamaru came into view ponytail-first, black spikes bobbing up the underside of the hill until his placid face came into view, giving them a lazy wave. Chouji waved the box of dango in the air like a peace offering in return and Shikamaru’s face lit up in that uniquely-Shikamaru way, even as he dodged the long-cleaned wooden skewer Ino sailed just past his ear like a senbon. 

Because even if he would only ever be loved like a friend and a brother and a son, he knew the two of them loved him. He was an Akimichi, and there was a warrior’s constitution burning at the bottom of his lungs, and he wore his heart on his sleeve like armor. Because he was Chouji, and he had Ino, and he had Shikamaru, and they believed in him. 

Shikamaru flopped down onto the grass like just walking up the hill had taken all the energy in his body and he had none to spare, holding his hand out for the dango skewer like a drowning man called for air. There was a lazy smile on his face and Ino was beaming and Chouji’s too-big, too-soft, ever-bleeding and thrice-damned heart was full. 

Because he was one third of Ino-Shika-Cho and that was more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! shikacho has utterly captured my heart as of late and chouji is one of my absolute faves, so here's the first in a series of many chouji related drabbles. as always, comments, concrit, and questions are always appreciated! <3


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